Sentiment
by ibelieveinguardianangels
Summary: After upsetting John, Sherlock finally learns the meaning of sentiment. (Sorry for the bad summary.)


**Just a short story idea. **

**Sherlock is a little out of character in this one. **

**This didn't turn out quite like I wanted it to, but I hope its okay. **

**Apologies for any mistake. **

**Also, apologies that I only ever seem to write hurt/comfort stories. (I'm open to prompts). **

Sentiment

His heart was aching from the silent treatment he had been receiving from his friend and flatmate for the better part of the day. It didn't appear to matter what he said or what he did, it was met with a silent air of indifference. The tension was so thick it could be cut with a knife and, in all honesty, it made his heart ache. John couldn't even stand to be in the same room as him.

Even when the detective had gone out of his way and taken the time to make John a cup of tea by way of an apology, it had been left on the coffee table to turn stone cold and develop a disgusting, thick skin on top of it. The ex-soldier had upped and left the sitting room the second the detective had appeared and placed the mug down beside him, not even meeting Sherlock's gaze.

"Do you really think a cup of tea will make up for your behaviour?" John had questioned when he'd emerged from his bedroom to use the toilet a few hours later, his tone was disbelieving as he stood with his arms folded across his chest as an uncharacteristically shy Sherlock attempted, feebly, to defend himself against the onslaught of words and insults that followed.

"You called me a cripple, Sherlock." John was furious as he referred to the situation that had occurred at the crime scene wherein, during an argument with Anderson, Sherlock had argued that, despite being a cripple, John could manage the stairs without getting out of breath. The man hadn't meant up upset his friend. John clenched his fists, making his way over to the sofa where Sherlock was perched; the detective closed his eyes and braced himself to be hit, but the punch didn't come and he anxiously cracked an eye open, his gaze falling on the disappointed expression on his friend's face.

"I didn't mean it-," Sherlock began to defend himself, feeling a lump rise in his throat as he took in John's expression.

"Oh," John interjected, choking out an angered laugh, "you didn't mean it offensively? Just," the doctor sighed, pressing his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose, "just get out of my sight, Sherlock. I don't even want to look at you." The detective jumped from his seat as the 'soldier' seeped into John's tone and he dashed out of the bedroom, closing the door behind him just as warm tears fell from his blurred eyes and spilled down his cheeks.

John had been sitting in his chair, his nose buried in the book he was reading when he'd heard the quiet whimper of his name emitting from his 'sociopathic' flatmate's bedroom, he stood quietly, making his way across the carpet and towards the bedroom, etching the door open and poking his head into the room. His heart dropped as his eyes scanned the room, falling on the figure in the centre, the consulting detective was sitting, cross legged, on his bedroom floor in his pyjamas, his head buried in his hands and his body hunched over, his shoulders were shaking and sniffles were ringing around the room, John made his way into the room, kneeling beside his friend.

"John?" Sherlock croaked, trying hard to keep the quivering out of his voice as he felt a warm, comforting arm loop around his thin shoulders, heat radiating from the body beside him. He pulled his face from where it was buried in his palms as he felt an equally warm hand rest on the top of his left arm.

"Yes, Sherlock," his flatmate's voice was soft as he soothed him, slightly shaken at the sight of his friend acting so vulnerable, "its me. Why don't you and I sit on your bed, hmm?" John questioned, "Surely you'll be much more comfortable there." John quietly helped his friend to his feet, feeling a twinge in his chest as he caught side of the tears rolling down his friend's cheeks, his blue-green eyes reddened from weeping. The doctor guided his friend towards the bed, climbing on and watching as he followed him, appearing to be in a daze of sorts.

John gently pulled the younger man towards him, rather surprised that he was accepting the comfort and not fighting him, not claiming that he was fine; John could feel his body shaking under his touch as more sobs escaped the man, tears dripped from his chin, soaking his gray t-shirt, darkening the material.

The ex-soldier kept his arm looped around his friend's shoulders, waiting patiently for his pained sobs to die down, he moved slightly so he was leaning against the headboard as his companion's body began teetering slowly towards him until he was leaning up against him, his head resting on his chest as quiet, pained tears continued to roll down his cheek, now dripping onto John's green pyjama top, but the detective seemed content in his friend's arm, taking in the warm comfort.

John tightened both his arms around Sherlock's body as he fixed his gaze on the black curls on the top of his head as he sniffled, his right hand rising up slowly, groping around John's chest in search for the collar of John's shirt, he fingered it gently, taking a comfort in the material as he wrapped it around his long finger, rubbing it between the tips of his thumb and his middle finger.

"I'm sorry, John," came a very soft, quiet apology from the distressed detective, his voice partly muffled by the shirt he'd buried his face in.

"I know, Sherlock," John gently massaged Sherlock's shoulder in a soothing manner, "so am I."

**Thank you for reading, I'd love to know what you think. **

**ibelieveinguardianangels **


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